Jul. 20th, 2008

endlessdel: (HalloweenPlot-Psychotic)
When he had gone to sleep the night before, he'd been thinking about Ginger. About the body. About what she had been before she was a body.

When he woke up, Ginger was standing right over him, silent, with a hole in her head. He didn't breathe - blinked and she was gone - it must have been a remnant of his subconscious, leftover from a dream he couldn't remember; one of those weird human things. But something else was wrong. Nearly everything else. He'd changed before, and he could recognize subtle shifts in his body.

This wasn't subtle.

It wasn't even his body. It was a naked, very female one, with raw, recent knife scars on the wrist -- and he knew precisely who it belonged to.

He just wasn't sure what he was doing inside it. He couldn't change form - that was a very liquid metal specific function. Besides, he definitely wasn't in the IPD office anymore. The chaos level was similar but there was no paperwork, only… art?

And no Sarah. Instead, a pair of dogs was watching him.

He sat up, slowly adjusting to the new parameters, trying to recall the dogs' names. The one with the keys seemed fairly oblivious to the situation - in fact, he seemed fairly insistent on licking him - but the German shepherd was looking at him in a very intent, very intelligent way.

Dogs had always been efficient terminator detectors.

"BaRNaBas, wHY Am I iN DeL's bOdy?" he frowned. He had her voice, too. There had always been an odd quality to it that he couldn't quite interpret or even grasp, and now he was producing it.

Barnabas gave a single bark in response. Even if he knew, he had no method of sharing the information. Dogs rarely communicated in human language. Unless they were in a Disney movie, like the strange one with the talking lions.

This wasn't a Disney movie. And there were people in the room, silent people like Ginger, but he didn't know them. After a moment of consideration he concluded that they didn't exist - not tangibly here - but were imprinted in Del's mind somehow.

He was dressed and outside a few minutes later, with a cone of ice cream in his hand and Barnabas following him quietly, probably to watch over his owner's body.

This was not good. The T-1000 was under psych observation already. And there was an investigation going on, a killer on the loose. Becoming the anthropomorphic representation of insanity was not a smart plan.

He needed Reese.

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Delirium

December 2015

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